


Music of the Lake

by NavyGreen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable Bardlings (Tolkien), Bard has stage fright, Bard plays the lute!, Dancing, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Implied Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Lake-town, Lots of instrument and songs, M/M, Minor Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Mirkwood, POV Bard the Bowman, Pre-The Hobbit, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, bard the bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23242936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyGreen/pseuds/NavyGreen
Summary: Bard had learnt how to play the lute during his early childhood.A story of Bard - who is not a bard, just a lute-player, thank you very much -  and how he somehow managed to get himself invited to the Mirkwood Elves' Feast Under the Stars as an honoured guest and play for their King. Did he mention he doesn't like playing for crowds?
Relationships: Bard the Bowman & Bard's Children, Bard the Bowman & Thranduil, Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	Music of the Lake

Bard had learnt how to play the lute during his early childhood.

He had been too young – and thus too weak – to help his father on the Lake, or take an apprenticeship with the guilds. He could not lift the hammer, or stand the heat of the forge for much longer than a few moments. Instead, his father had taken Bard aside each night and taught him the lute. With gnarled hands, he had guided Bard’s fingers to pluck strings and flick others. He’d taught him the proper hold. He’d taught him how to correctly tune the strings. They would play together by the hearth, Bard’s own lute a much smaller imitation of his father’s to better fit his smaller hands.

His father’s lute was of a soft, dark wood, with golden illustrations of elks dancing amongst trees. The strings, Bard was told, were from the finest hairs of an Elf, woven and tied so they made the most beautiful sounds that side of the Misty Mountains.

It had been in their family for generations – Bard had been told - and was as precious as the Black Arrow hidden in the ceiling of their kitchen. To lose it – or Eru above, break it – would be of a similar crime to dropping the Black Arrow in the Long Lake just before it froze over. This crime, Bard had been warned, would doom not only his family, but all families on the Lake (and although looking back on it, Bard understood his father’s precautions and appreciated them, his warnings weighed heavy on his already young, fragile shoulders).

When concerning the losing or breaking of their family’s lute, his father told him, Greenwood the Great would shake with force, and all the beasts under its canopy would flee, never to be seen again. And, of course, the Elves would not appreciate that, and they’d come hunt Bard until the end of his days.

That, Bard had doubted. What was a lute to a Dwarf-crafted, Dragon-killing arrow?

But his uncertainty didn’t keep him from treating both arrow and lute with the deepest care. And his uncertainty didn’t keep the nightmares of shaking forests and tall, unkillable Elves from his sleep, either.

By his fourteenth year, he had become quite fluent in the lute. As he played, his fingers became more dexterous, and although they failed under the tests presented by forges or craftmanship, they fitted perfectly against the curve of a bow, or the length of an arrow. And so most mornings – when the elders of the Lake had not awoken, and thus could not scold him – found Bard with either lute or bow in hand, practising by empty houses.

Sometimes, his mother would accompany her husband and son’s playing with her high, melodic tunes, and together their small house would fill with music, with the next worry only concerning what would fill his plate for dinner.

Under his father’s guidance, Bard had never missed a note. For he was Bard the bard, and nothing could stop such a young child.

Bard had played at their funeral. Then, his fingers had stumbled and jittered. The song, instead of lifting through the thick air and mourning his parents where his words had failed, had fallen into the watery depths of the Long Lake, sinking like a stone. Good, he’d thought. Let it stay below the surface.

His friends and what little family he had left had guided him away from his parents’ pyre with murmurers of comfort. The only comfort Bard had found – and would continue to – was silence.

His house – for it was his and no other’s, now – remained tuneless for months. He'd hidden the golden lute like he did the Black Arrow. He would not speak of it. Would not glance at it when he cooked the meagre meals he could. At times, if he tried hard enough, he could even bar it from entering his dreams. And so, Bard existed tunelessly, in his empty house, upon the quiet Lake.

He had been no stranger to Marilla, and Marilla had been no stranger to him. They had kissed and held hands, always hidden away in the alcoves of distant houses. Once Bard had even dared the darkening woods of Mirkwood and gathered a great bouquet of white flowers when he had upset her. Her smiled had returned the warmth to his fingers but, still, the lute remained in the highest shelf of the kitchen. Unstrung. Unplayed. It was only when a tumble in the hay during Bard’s nineteenth year had resulted in a baby (and a scolding from her father so loud it woke the entirety of Laketown before dawn, and Eru hadn’t that been an embarrassing year) that Bard had dared to stand on a badly-carved chair and lay his eyes upon the lute for the first time in years.

It was as if time had not touched it. Its strings – long loosened to prevent damage – still glittered in the morning light. Its golden elks still leapt between trees that had not flaked or faded. Thin, elegant Elvish script decorated its edge as if it had been carved only yesterday.

His memory returned upon holding it – his hands now large enough to grip it properly. It was like Autumn rain to a drought-cursed field. Flowers of song, once curled shut, then bloomed and exposed themselves to the sunlight.

Marilla’s father had been impressed with his singing, even though Bard knew he fumbled some notes (his hands had not been used to any lute for many a year, let alone one he had never played before). His singing was not the best either – Bard personally thought he’d sounded like a wounded thrush – but it had been enough.

They had married in the Spring.

And she’d died, not six years later.

Bard’s childhood lute had become Sigrid’s (for Bain cared for only beast slaying and bowmanship at his age, and Tilda could not gather her mind for long enough periods at hers). Together, while Bain stoked the fire and Tilda practised her stitching, Bard taught his daughter the strings and what they did. He taught her how to hold the instrument, how to care and preserve it. Sigrid, being the eldest, would be the one to inherit it after Bard’s death, after all. And he was sure he could not find a better successor.

Sigrid, she discovered, enjoyed playing to crowds. She’d taken an apprenticeship with the Weaver’s Guild – her fingers were as deft as her father’s, it appeared. Between the hours of looming and hooking and more looming, she’d play for her companions. This, however, became a grapevine of information, and Bard had almost dropped his plate when Sigrid had begun to play a – albeit lyricless – raunchy tavern song about topics his daughter (in Bard’s opinion) should never be exposed to.

Alternatively, Bard did not enjoy playing to audiences. While he was Bard, he was not a bard, no matter how many jokes he had heard since his first note. The years between his first song and his emergence into adulthood had been plagued by those Bard the Bard jokes. Though, now most men knew better than to try for low-hanging fruit.

As much as Bard enjoyed playing in the house with his children, nothing could compare to playing to the open air. However, playing anywhere but his house promised a crowd – citizens of the Lake came to him in flocks, wishing for this song and that song, for this epic ballad and those tavern tunes.

Bard was not a bard. He had no time and no energy between his three children and his contract with Mirkwood to learn an entire ballad. What was he? An Elf?

No, Bard was a Man. A Man who needed some air.

And so, one day on a breezy Summer’s morn, Bard wrapped his lute in a soft, protective cloth, and sailed towards the red canopy of Mirkwood.

Since Bard had planned his getaway on the same day as his fortnightly barrel-collecting, he needed to wait until they bobbed down the river. If he were to play his lute and, Eru above, miss the wine barrels, let them float into the Lake and be snatched by the hands of drunkards? He’d never hear the end of it – from Man or Elf.

Once the barrels were collected and tied securely to his barge – and only then, because while he was not a bard, he was also not a slacker; a job had to be done and money needed to be earned – he uncovered his lute.

It glimmered under the freckled light cast by the canopy. Turning it in his hand sent thin streams of light across the ground. It was reminiscent of a polished, well-cut gem. The golden elks seemed to shift through a cycle if he glanced at them from the corner of his eye, or if he tilted the instrument just the right way. The strings – fine, woven Elf hair – almost glowed.

Around him, the limbs and branches of Mirkwood’s trees could’ve been mistaken to have leaned inwards, settling like a crowd. The breeze slowed, weakened in strength, and hushed like one too.

But in reality, there was no crowd, one to ask for any number of songs Bard never learnt. His lute did not glow or glimmer. And the forest did not bend in anticipation.

Because Bard did not play to an audience.

And so he sat on the barrels and took a few moments to tune the strings.

Each high-pitched note echoed through the trees. Each pluck was a thrush, fluttering through the leaves on its migration north. Perfect, he thought. There was nothing better than open air.

Bard positioned his lute, let it settle against his chest, and began to play.

It was a song his father had taught him; 'a song of the Elves passed down from my father and his father before him', he’d explained to a youthful Bard, still so fresh with the strings that he’s struggled to follow. It was slow, but not bland, and Bard’s fingers regained their memory like a sponge taking in water. Like his father before him, it was the first song he had taught to his eldest.

Soon enough, his little clearing was filled with song and, despite himself, Bard couldn’t help but hum along.

The leaves rustled above him, almost in slow applause, or the hushed whispers of an awed audience. The water by his feet splashed against the small stones and pebbles lining the river’s shore. Even, predicable sets of waves lapped at his boat gently.

There was the smell of flowers – though Bard could not name it. What he could name, however, was the distinct smell of something stronger – pine. It enveloped him like a blanket, and he thought of it as his fingers plucked without his full, constant attention.

He played the final note, let it linger in the forest. The urge to play had lessened, now. Somewhat sated, like a dog thrown a bone.

Best be heading back, he thought. He had reached for the protective cloth to cover his lute when he heard a clap.

Then one more. And another, all merging into a rumble.

When Bard looked up from his fingers, wide-eyed, he found Wood-Elves crouching in the branches above him. Clapping.

Immediately, his blood sped up, sending adrenaline into his muscles. His mind broke from his previous musical enrapture and struggled to piece together his situation through his sudden, hyper-aware state.

He felt his muscles tighten, preparing to leap off his boat – still tethered in a secured bargemen’s knot – at the slightest provocation and flee back to Lake Town if need be.

He had seen Elves before – he worked for them after all, and he was by far not a blind Man. But to be surrounded by them, garbed in armour and carrying swords by their sides? The sight sent a cold chill down his spine, freeing his feet to his barge despite his burning muscles. Eru, tell him he was not going to die for the crime of playing his lute?

The Elves’ clapping slowed to a stop. They surrounded him, silent, and watching.

Prey and predator, Bard thought.

One Elf – with black hair, long and shiny, like the feathers of a crow – leaned precariously forward on a branch that should not have been able to support him. He said one word in the graceful language of the Elves.

It was not ordered. Was not spat or yelled. But… asked?

Bard blinked – and felt the tips of his eyelashes touch his cheeks. The Elves he’d found himself in acquaintance with once in a blue moon had only spoke limited Common – and they were closer to diplomats than guards. Luckily, not much had needed explaining in their brief crossings. But now-

The black-haired Elf repeated his foreign word. The other Elves began to murmur amongst themselves, low and hushed. It reminded Bard of the waves that lapped against the beams of his house, or the sounds of drizzly rain on an Autumn’s eve.

Then, as one, as if they shared the hivemind of bees, they quietened. The same Elf leaned forward and asked;

“Again?”

Of all of Bard’s fantasies, of all of his imaginary scenarios and figurative moments he’d ever compounded in his mind – he’d never thought he’d be asked to encore to a troop of Wood-Elves.

And, well, who was he to disappoint?

A nervous laugh bubbled past Bard’s lips. All strength left his knees and he fell backwards onto the barrels.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, okay, sure, yep.”

Did they want a different song? Bard couldn’t remember one – it was as if all tunes had fled from his mind like bunnies and burrowed deep somewhere else.

But it was ‘again’ not ‘another’ – Bard refused to recognise the very likely chance of the Elves not knowing the word for ‘another’ – so a repeat would have to do.

So, with numb, shaking fingers, Bard began from the beginning.

His palms were sweaty. He could feel the moisture gathering around the neck of his lute. His knees were weak, wobbling. He hoped his Elvish audience could not spot it under his thick pants – but one could not question the impeccable sight of Elves. Bard would’ve been surprised to be sitting straight if he could do so between trying to remember the notes and counting the pauses. Inwardly, his mind rattled like a child’s toy, rocking and swaying, empty. Eru, don’t let him die because he was not a good bard. He would never hear the end of it from his parents – and Eru, Marilla.

The Man was just nearing halfway when a horn sounded through the forest. It rumbled through the dirt and rippled through the water. The branches snapped to attention, and far off, a flock of birds fled from their nests and into the safety of the sky.

Bard’s head flinched up, and his fingers stuttered to a halt, but the Elves had already leapt from their seats and disappeared into the thicket.

Once again, Bard was alone.

His hands trembled. The curve of his thumb trembled against the neck of the lute. Its dull thumping echoed the rapid beats of his heart. His sight swam, and the straight trunks of the trees around him bend and swirled.

He needed to go- he needed to go.

Bard set his lute on his coat and, after a few wildly unsuccessful tries, managed to tug his barge free with unsteady hands. He kicked at the dock and pushed it from the shore. It rocked steadily for a moment, before being caught by the current. Then, Bard grabbed the rudder and guided his flight back to the Lake.

Bard did not tell his children of his audience of Elves. Bard did not tell his neighbours. And Bard – by Eru above – did not tell the Master. He could do without a lashing, and he would prefer keeping his job, thank you very much.

He needed the money more than he ached to tell the story. Let no one say Bard was loose-tongued.

And so, until the next fortnight, Bard did not mention any of it to anyone. He looked upon the forest’s edge with a creased brow (and closed lips), and whenever he hunted within its borders or fished by its shores, he was careful not to hunt too deep or attract attention – not that one could tell with Elves. But the effort settled some part of his mind.

He returned back home each trip without having entertained an audience. And each night, Bard stared upon his lute and wondered why the Elves had wanted to hear him play – why they’d asked for another and kept listening. Surely there were better bards than him in Mirkwood. He’d had a mere few decades to learn, and when compared to the centuries – no, millennia – of Elves, Bard was a sapling in the ageless forest of musical entertainment. And, Elves possessed superior hearing – they must’ve heard his stuttering heart and the slight off-tones of his notes. But still, they had stayed.

These questions came to Bard frequently. When he slept, he dreamt of an Elvish audience. When he fished, he stared towards the thickets of Mirkwood and searched for slanted eyes (which, by doing so, he had lost a fair few fish to).

Bard’s next pick up came all too quickly. And while the thought of entering the Elf-invested forest made his stomach churn, he readied his barge. He packed his bow for safety – and his lute, too.

The barrels went much the same as the fortnight before, and the fortnight before that. He caught them bobbing down the river, hauled them onto the barge, and tied them together for travel.

The smell of pine still wafted through the clearing. The birds, too, had returned, and they chirped from their hidden perches.

Bard straightened, feeling the ache in his spine, and glanced around him. No Elves – that he could see, that was. Even with his years of archery, ensuring his eyes and senses were sharp, he could not compare to the eyes of Elves. He could’ve had a whole squadron of Elves around him and not even known it.

Best to test the waters.

“Hello?” he called. His voice echoed through the forest, bumping off trunks and riding the wind further east.

Silence, for a moment. Then –

There was an audible, purposeful groaning of a tree limb as a slim, Elven face came into view just above Bard. A second later, and another appeared from the darkness. Then another, from the canopy. And another, and another, until Bard recognised he had twice the audience from the fortnight before.

Their rounded, pale faces were like owls in the trees. Still, the Elves were dressed in armour, so camouflaged in the branches and leaves of the canopy that they disappeared if Bard wasn’t staring directly at them.

“Again?” came a question, somewhere to the Man’s right.

“Again,” came the reply, though not from Bard.

Another Elf appeared, blond – almost white – of hair, with grey eyes and an almost-human smile stretching his face.

He leapt from the trees, and despite the immense distance, landed on the ground completely silently (if he were to jump from the same height, Bard would’ve snapped his ankle; at the very least). He too, the Man noticed with a zap of shock, held a lute. It glimmered similarly to his own, though instead of golden Elks frolicking through the trees there were Elves – too graceful and long for the race of Men. The Elf – clad in green-brown armour, yet holding an ambience different, more blue-blooded than the other Elves – walked towards him. Yet, it did not resemble the Master, when he walked among the people of the Lake. Rather, it echoed of Bard’s father, when he talked to the people and asked for their problems so he could assist.

The Elf barely disturbed the foliage around his feet, and when he stepped forward Bard noticed he left no footprints. Elves, Bard had been told, weighed less than a feather, and could move faster and more dexterous than one on a breeze. It appeared to be true.

The Elf stepped onto the barge without disturbing its settled position in the water and sat beside Bard with no sense of fear.

Bard, meanwhile, was beginning to feel the edges of his mind fade out.

“Another?” the Elf asked with a – although distinctly foreign – largely understandable accent. He held up his own lute. “You play?”

“I do,” Bard responded, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

The Elf nodded and bent his torso forward slightly. “I am Legolas.”

Bard felt the ghost of his mother behind him, berating him for not introducing himself sooner. What uncivilised man are you? Put some respect in our family line.

“I am Bard.”

Legolas smiled and chuckled. It sounded like the trot of a fox. “I am too a bard.”

Curse my name, Bard thought to himself. A nervous chuckle left him, and he felt his fingers begin to become weightless. He couldn’t feel the toes in his boots.

“Play with me?” the Elf asked.

Bard could only nod, and waited for the other to begin.

Legolas smiled, bright as the morn, and plucked at his lute. A soft, sweet melody began to play, and Bard recognised it as another song he’d been taught by his father. There was an accompanying tune, for bands and duets, and it sung distantly to him from the back of his mind.

So, Bard played it.

Once more, Elves sat on their branches or the soft grass and listened to the music of the forest. The trees seemed to bend forward, hunching closer together to create a small, musical dome. The leaves, previously blocking all but freckles of sunlight to pepper the forest floor, now pulled away. Golden, evening light blessed the clearing, and Bard felt something in his chest rise to meet it.

He did not know when the Elves had begun to sing with them. But one moment there were only strings, and another a soft choir of Elves sung around him.

It was not like the rowdy drawls at the tavern, or his mother’s voice, or even the small, professional choir of Lake Town. The Elves sang like the mist among the mountains, or the dew on an early Spring’s morn. They sang like the trickling of a creek. Like the red sunset and purple clouds.

Bard’s heart clung to his ribs. He felt breath gather and clump in his throat, but his fingers played on.

Everything but the clearing fell away. It didn’t matter where the river led, where it came from. It did not matter where Bard would go next, or where the Elves were to go after he finished (Finish? He thought mutely. Why would something as wonderful as this finish?). All there was and ever would be, was right there.

Legolas plucked the last note. Let it hang. He met eyes with Bard, and the corners of his lips dipped. Gently – as if he were a young boy with his first, startled stallion – the Elf reached out with his thin hand and wiped under Bard’s eye with his thumb. It came away wet.

“Our songs are often mournful,” Legolas said to him softly. “They reach even the hearts that don’t know their stories.”

Bard couldn’t find any words in his throat, and so said nothing. His vision swirled and blurred.

Suddenly, the Elf snapped his head to the north. He paused, listening.

“We must go,” he said. Likely to Bard, as when he checked he discovered most of the Elves had left, sunken back into their forest.

Bard could only nod. “Thank- thank you for playing with me.”

Legolas smiled, leapt from the barge, and disappeared into the darkness.

Bird song filled the area. But it could not compare to the Elvish choir and ancient notes.

Bard’s chest ached. He was too old for these frights – let alone the stress! With his stomach flipping, he did as he always did, and returned to Lake Town.

If he hummed a recently-heard tune on his way back, he didn’t speak of it.

Upon his realisation that he had, once again, not been killed for the crime of playing a lute, Bard began to wonder if – just maybe – the Elves of Mirkwood didn’t intend to kill him.

It was always better to be careful, however.

So, when the next fortnight arrived, Bard entered the forest with some trepidation. Though, it largely remained centred in whether he could remember the notes if the time came to play again.

And it did; to which Bard played from his barge and entertained his Elvish audience until the sunset and his worry for his children overcame him.

The next fortnight arrived, so he played again.

And the next fortnight went much the same.

And the one after that.

And the one after that one, too.

Legolas, more often than not, failed to join them. The lives of Elves were mysterious, and so Bard could not blame him (if anything, Bard was a bit grateful he did not have to continuous embarrass himself in front of him). However, what the Man could always reply upon was the rather steady growing of Elves who appeared from the darkness of Mirkwood to hear him play. On his fourth visit, he noticed wooden logs had been placed around the clearing in a semicircle around the dock. The following fortnight, he noticed a curious emergence of mushrooms that glowed dimply. Bard could at least be thankful for those, as he found it increasingly easier to find his way back into his boat come the nearing evenings.

Sometimes, Bard was joined by Elves who played instruments other than the lute. Flutes, fiddles, and once a strange metallic contraption that they struck, joined him in song.

Currently, the Elves appeared happy with his largely limited repertoire of songs. Happy enough to leave him a multitude of gifts. One time it was a basket of wine of cheese; another time it was a new coat – so very, very warm against the incoming Winter chills – and another an Elf had left a songbook, almost as thick as his finger. This had been completely written in Elvish of course, but the notes remained the same in any language. Bard had spent the rest of that Autumn learning its contents, plucking out unfamiliar tunes into the night and early morning.

One day, Bard found only Legolas waiting for him at the dock. And without a lute.

“We want to invite you to the Feast Under the Stars,” The Elf had announced as Bard docked. He assisted Bard in securing the barge to the dock before handing him a letter.

It was sealed with a deep green wax and was strangely warm to the touch when Bard had taken it.

Legolas had continued as the barrels began to bob down the river towards them. “Our King has heard of your music. He wants to hear it for himself.”

Bard had looked to the Elf, barrel half pulled from the water.

“What,” was all he could say.

Legolas’s face had split into a grin. “Our King – he wants to hear you at the Feast Under the Stars and we’re inviting you to it.”

“I- I can’t- I’m not good enough- really I’m not great- I have three children-”

Legolas had waved his hand in dismissal. “They’re invited too. The Woodland realm has been childless for decades.” The Elf looked him over and squinted. “I’ll order some new clothes for you too. You must look your best.”

“I can’t-”

But Legolas was already gone, leaping from the dock and into the trees. “We’ll see you then!”

Despite never having given any Elf his address, a neatly wrapped parcel found his doorstep a week later. After checking the surrounding walkways in the early morning light, Bard had brought it inside and pulled the green lace undone with one hand while lighting the hearth with the other.

Bard, in all honestly, should not have been surprised, with the Elvish Feast nearing by the day.

And yet, the neatly folded coat still managed to surprise him. A small note lay on top, with golden edges and a neat, black script in, to Bard’s ever-continuing astonishment, Common.

“We could not weave you a complete new outfit before the Feast, but we hope this coat will do. Hope to see you and your family soon. Best wishes and may Elbereth bless you.”

An elegant yet completely unreadable signature signed the bottom corner. In gold-leaf. Because why wouldn’t elves use gold-leaf in a letter to a simple bargeman.

Holding the coat high revealed the intricate embroidery lining its seams. Along its bottom edge, golden elks frolicked. Its fabric was a deep red colour, but something about the threads seemed to shimmer. He flipped it over and trailed his fingers along the back seam. It was of a finery not even found in the Master’s quarters.

Bard was no weaver, but he knew he held something that likely could’ve bought his entire house. Sigrid, he was sure, could’ve told him more of its creation and crafting – but he had not told her about the Elves yet. Soon, perhaps.

The Man sighed heavily and neatly folded his now second coat from the Elves. He didn’t deserve it – perhaps he would give it to Sigrid for her birthday instead. She would adore it, he was sure. And while it would be too long on her until she grew a far few more inches, it would be invaluable during the Winter nights.

And so, he placed the new – far, far too expensive – coat and its brown wrapping in his wardrobe.

The Elves wouldn’t want a Manish bard to play at their probably-very-fancy feast anyway. It would be for the best.

Or, at least, that was what Bard tried to convince himself.

The night of the Feast found Bard fishing upon the lake. Tilda lay at the bow of the boat, curled under blankets and dozing. Bain struggled with his fishing string, grumbling and cursing when he thought Bard was too occupied to hear. Sigrid, instead, played her lute beside her father and sang a soft tune to accompany it. The sun was near setting, and the carp of the Lake were readying to – hopefully – snatch one of Bard’s hooks.

Sigrid glanced at Bain – who was staring into the Lake and cursing a storm, albeit quietly – before leaning closer to her father.

“Da,” she murmured.

Bard was pulled from his focused stare into the water and looked to her. “Yes dear?” he answered, just as quietly.

“Will the Elves be angry at us?” She asked. Despite her split attention she continued to play beautifully. Bard had no doubt she would become even better than him one day. “For not attending their Feast?”

Bard had told her of his business with the Elves – the musical performances, not his barrel-delivering business since she already knew that – the week before. Sigrid, ever protective and thus ever curious and nosey, had found his newer Elven coat. That, along with the various other gifts from the Elves decorating their homes (and stomachs), ensured the metaphysical string tying Bard’s tongue was forcefully loosened. Sigrid had taken it well, if with a few ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’, like any other child her age. Sigrid, after all, was a child born on the Lake, and while the Elves were certainly living beings in the western wood, she too had been raised on the fanciful tales of their culture. Bard, in all his new experience with the Wood-Elves, could not find the evidence to disclaim some of Lake Towns more wild rumours.

Who was to stay the Elves didn’t dance naked under the moon and turn into beasts? Not Bard.

After his and his daughter’s discussion, Bard had thought of telling his other children. However, he was not sure if he could prevent Bain and Tilda from stealing his barge, sailing to the Lake’s western shore, and running straight into the forest to see if the stories were true. They would only fan each other’s fires. And neither could keep a secret from the other.

Sigrid however, was responsible. Bard liked to think it came from him (but he knew it was all Marilla).

“I doubt it,” Bard said to her, flicking his fishing rod once. The surface around his string rippled. “Probably forgotten all about their Manish bard.”

Sigrid giggled, sweet and high. “Bard the bard. They’ll sing of you for eons.”

Bard smiled. “No need to worry my sweet. I’ll take care of it.”

Nearby, Bain gasped and began to reel in his fishing rod. His exclamations had roused Tilda and she now sat wide-eyed as he continued to pull in his line.

“I’ve got something, Da!” he shouted.

Bard set his own rod on the floor of the boat and moved to crouch behind him.

“What do you think it is?” Bain went on, pulling and tugging, pulling and tugging. “A carp? A catfish? A shark!”

Bain’s line finally emerged from the water, and hanging on his hook was an old, soggy boot.

The boy deflated, dropping his shoulders and grumbling. Bard pat his shoulder.

“Better than nothing,” he assured him and unhooked Bain’s snare from his catch.

Their fishing concluded with three carp, one boot, and a tired Tilda.

Bard, with his sore muscles and tired eyes, dearly wished for a long sleep. However, the boat needed to be docked and secured. After doing so – and teaching Bain the most secure knot he knew – the family walked across the creaky wooden walkways of Lake Town towards their house. Looking upon its exterior, Bard found nothing amiss. Good, he thought. Perhaps the Elves weren’t going to notice his absence. It was not as if he sent his confirmed attendance anyway.

However, when Bard opened the door to the house, he found Legolas sitting upon his kitchen table.

He was dressed in such fineries Bard had never seen – far outmatching Bard’s newest coat. His silver robe fell to the floor, glittering like stars or the tip of the ripples upon the Lake. A finely-woven circlet held his flaxen hair from his face, and it made his grey-eyes turn silver. His boots, though brown, were polished, and rose high towards his knee.

He stood out in Bard’s kitchen like a silver spoon in the mud.

“Legolas!” Bard gasped, just as Sigrid whispered;

“An Elf!”

In a second Tilda had awoken from her drowsy state, snapping to attention in her sister’s arms. Bain, meanwhile, had dropped the fishing nets with a low wheeze.

The Elf only smiled, as graceful as the moon, and moved to stand. “The Feast is tonight. You must get ready.”

Bard raised a hand. “I really don’t think-” he began.

“Why is there an Elf in our house, Da?” Bain interrupted.

“The nets, Bain!” Sigrid gasped, having recovered the quickest. She pointed to the nets that now began to slide down the house’s steps towards the closet drop into the Lake.

Together Bard’s children jolted into action; Bain dropped to knees and reached for the nets; Sigrid moved to help him, and little Tilda attempted to climb over her shoulder.

Bard stepped around them, hands outstretched. “I don’t think you’d want a Manish bard, would you?”

Legolas’s brow creased, and his head tilted. “Of course we do, we’re all quite excited.”

“Legolas, my lute-”

The Elf perked up, like a puppy catching a scent, and rushed up the staircase. “I’ll get it. Ready your children!”

Tilda, having escaped Sigrid, tugged on Bard’s pants. “What’s happening, Da?”

Bard crouched and picked her up. He swallowed thickly. “We’re going to see the Elves.”

A grin split Tilda’s face and she giggled. His two eldest, in the meantime, and saved the nets and were shoving them into their dedicated chest by the door.

“Are we really going, Da?” Sigrid asked as she slapped her brother’s hand away and shut the lid. She gasped. “What will we wear!?”

Bard guided his two eldest towards the stairs and set Tilda in Bain’s arms. “Put on your best clothes!”

His three children rushed up the stairs. At the same time, Legolas came down, grabbing a ceiling beam and swinging over their heads to land before Bard with his lute and coat. The wooden floorboards – which creaked even when little Tilda stepped upon them, remained silent.

“Quickly,” the Elf urged, guiding Bard’s arms out of his older, more fitting coat and into the Elvish finery. “We have a boat ready by the western edge of Esgaroth.”

“We?” was all Bard could ask before his lute was set in his hands.

He had not pulled on the coat before (in fact, he had activity avoided doing anything more than touching its seams or returning it to its hidden place) but now that it was Bard noticed it fit him almost perfectly, and its fur-lined inside insulated him like no other piece of clothing had done before.

Bain was the first one down, a rather old brown cloak trailing after him. It was a bit torn at the edges, and the laces to tie the front together didn’t exactly line up, but it was the best he had. He had also changed his boots to his fur-lined pair. His hair, however, had escaped the brush and now sat curled chaotically around his head. If there was anything Bain had borrowed from his father, it would be his bowmanship and his hair.

The boy stared at the Elf, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. Even Bard, despite his experience, found himself doing much the same at the well-dressed Elf before them.

But Bard recovered quicker. “This is my son, Bain.”

That appeared to bring the boy from his stupor, and he bowed low. “Bain, son of Bard, at you and your family’s service.”

The Elf didn’t pause before he nodded his head in return. “Legolas, of the Woodland Realm,” he said smoothly, like a song well-practised.

Bain nodded, mumbling to himself. Then, Tilda rushed down the stairs and barrelled into his legs.

“My youngest, Tilda,” Bard said with a careful eye as she straightened.

His youngest glanced up at the Elf and beamed. “Hello!”

She wore her most formal dress, and someone had managed to wrangle her into a blue cloak and fur-lined boots. Bard suspected Sigrid.

Speaking of, Sigrid appeared next, walking down the stairs at a measured pace. She stood beside her siblings and curtsied. She wore a dress of her own making; while spun rather roughly, her embroidered touches – red leaves on a yellow background – spoke to her skill. She, too, wore a cloak of deep purple, and she fiddled with her lute.

“Sigrid, daughter of Bard,” she spoke.

“My eldest,” Bard added.

Together, his children were the stars of Bard’s eyes. His own lovely constellation he could look upon an unending amount of times. No matter how any Elf dressed.

Legolas smiled, nodded to them, and turned to walk out the door. “Follow me.”

And so, Bard collected his children and followed the Elf through the torch-lit streets of Lake Town.

Legolas and several other Elves – some he recognised, some he didn’t, all dressed in various Elvish fineries that belonged to a similar style – had sailed one of their boats to Lake Town to collect Bard for the Feast. Indeed, it seemed they really did want Bard. And that thought sent the Man’s stomach sinking.

They now returned to the forest, gliding along the small waves in a dark-wood boat. Strangely, Bard couldn’t spot the Elf who controlled the rudder. But he had other, more important issues to address.

“Rule one; no running off,” Bard said. Tilda sat in his lap, vibrating in excitement rather than chill, while Bain and Sigrid sat before him. “All three of you must stick together.”

The three nodded in agreement, though Tilda’s face turned sour, as if he had crushed her well-articulated plans. He went on.

“Rule two; no drinking any wine.”

Bain slouched and mumbled dejectedly under his breath. Sigrid, alternatively, straightened, opening her mouth to speak.

“No,” he said firmly, cutting her off. “Not even you.”

Sigrid huffed and joined her brother in his sad grumblings.

By then, their entourage had entered the edges of Mirkwood, bobbing under its thick canopies. Despite the time, the weather was rather warm; Bain had taken off his cloak and instead had it folded over his arms.

There came the pleasant smell of pine and firewood.

“Rule three; say your ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s. I won’t have the Elves think we aren’t grateful.”

“Yes, Da,” his children replied in unison.

Legolas, the Elf closest to them, seemed to chuckle softly. But Bard could not be sure over the slight sloshing of the boat beneath them.

They passed Bard’s usual docking point and continued upriver until they reached an uneventful section of riverbank. One singular wooden post rose from the dirt, and when they docked an Elf secured the boat firmly to it.

The Elves stepped onto the shore, disturbing none of the falling leaves, or causing the boat to sway from their weight. All but Legolas left the riverside, walking towards a faint orange glow between the distant trees.

Legolas assisted Tilda onto the shore, bending low to gently tug her dress straight. Then went Bain, who wobbled and swayed but managed to stay on his feet. Then Sigrid, who accepted Legolas’s extended forearm. Bard was last, and they accepted the Elf’s lead through the trees.

Bard had heard the stories of the depths of Mirkwood as much as any other Man born on the Lake. They spoke of giant, black spiders. They warned of a never-ending road. They mourned for Men lost within its darkened centre, blind to the light and forever lost. Some say that these lost Men became the spiders, and that these spiders built the road to lure more travellers into their nests.

And while he had never seen all of Mirkwood (and likely never would), what Bard came across was nothing like those tales.

A large clearing, bordered by massive, dark roots that rose from the dirt, contained a significant crowd of Elves. Larger than the population of Lake Town, to be sure. Perhaps even thrice its size. They either danced around a bonfire set in the centre, jumping and spinning to the Elvish band playing off to the side, or lounged across a series of carved seats and couches that littered the area. Long tables weighed with more food than Bard had seen in his life created a smaller, inner circle. The smell of oranges and woodsmoke and something like the smell of rain wafted through the air. It settled Bard’s bones while simultaneously rousing an unexpected feeling of wakefulness. 

The sky was freckled with stars, and one large stripe cut through the blackness as if one painted hand had dipped through its depths and turned it into a swirled splattering of white.

The ground, despite heavy rains the previous night, was perfectly dry. Grass grew strong into a large, soft pillow. But despite the late night, his sore muscles, and the very inviting ground, Bard felt more awake than ever.

“You and your family can sit with me,” Legolas said. His robe shone brighter than ever under the stars. Bard could barely look away.

Bard took hold of Tilda’s hand – who had begun to step towards the bonfire – and followed the glowing Elf towards a section of the clearing towards the north. Two elaborately-carven chairs sat in the grass, and what appeared to be a collection of Elk antlers decorated their backs and stretched towards the stars. One was larger than the other, rising from the grass. Beside them, a woven blanket was spread across the ground, consisting of red threads and golden edges.

Legolas, instead of sitting in one of the chairs no doubt intended for him, turned to Bard and his family and said; “You’re welcome to anything on the tables. We’re glad to have you.”

Bard shuffled, feeling heat rise on the back of his neck. “Thank you, we’re glad to be here.”

Sigrid tugged on Bain’s cloak, pulling him from his astonished stares, and they both thanked the Elf. Tilda joined only a second later, though her eyes remained on the Elves.

Legolas chuckled, sweet as bells, and left to join his people.

Bard and his family were left largely alone for the first few hours of the Feast. A table had been set up close to them, and so they ate and drank to their hearts’ – and stomachs’ – content. There were hot pies with fruit filling, large plates of all kinds of melons and berries, roasts of various meats, and so many other dishes they were unable to taste once their stomachs ached with fullness. While dark red wine sat in elegant glass jugs, there were also jugs of water and juice – the latter, Bard noticed, was only on the table closet to them.

Sigrid, despite her occasional asking, did not touch the jugs of wine. And neither did Bard. He had heard of the strength of Elvish wine – and he did not have the constitution of an Elf.

Though Legolas came to visit and chat with them occasionally (increasing more flushed each time), both his chair and the one beside it remained empty.

Bard, thank Eru above, had not been asked to play yet. Despite the warmth in the air, his fingers trembled, and anxiety settled low in his stomach like a boulder. There, it struggled like a drowning fish.

His anxiety seemed unwarranted – why would they want him to play? He’s just a guest, no need to be so nervous – when the lifted, ethereal tunes of the band stopped. Legolas stood with the bonfire to his back, and spoke to his Elvish companions in the tilted syllables and flowing structure of the language of the Wood-Elves.

Bard felt his heart leap into his throat, felt it beat hard under his chin.

Legolas’s eyes turned to him, and he gestured him forward.

Bard turned to his children, who in turn turned to him.

“Don’t go far,” he said to them and stood with his lute. They nodded.

The walk to the centre of the clearing should not have taken as long as it felt, but each step felt heavy in the grass, and each one of Bard’s uneven breathes lasted an eternity. He prayed to Eru that he wasn’t wobbling.

Eventually, he reached Legolas, and the Elf gestured to a wood-carved stool. Bard sat, lute positioned in his arms.

“Any requests?” Bard asked softly. He could barely hear himself over the crackling of the bonfire behind him. Despite its close proximity, it didn’t burn him.

Legolas chuckled and shook his head. “Whatever our bard wishes to play.”

Well that makes it harder, the Man thought faintly.

Legolas retreated to his chair, and that was when Bard noticed its companion was now occupied. A tall Elf sat upon it, legs crossed and back straight. A crown of twigs and berries lay upon his brow. His hair was a similar – no, identical – colour to Legolas’s own… who sat beside him.

Oh no, Bard thought. But it came to him distantly, like an echo through a cave. Oh no, oh no oh no oh no.

Every song and melody Bard had ever learnt fled his head like startled sparrows. He could barely remember how to hold the lute right.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no.

The Elves waited around him, some lounging, some sitting, some standing. And their King and Prince watched him too, one smiling while the other’s eyes were as focused as a hawk’s diving for its prey.

The clearing would have been silent if not for the bonfire and the slight wind through the leaves. His head echoed much the same silence.

A movement caught his attention among the statue-like Elves. There!

Sigrid was kneeling on their blanket, out the eye-sight of most Elves. She held her lute, met his eyes, and feigned the plucking of the strings.

Bard recognised the order. But from where- from where-

And just like that, a melody popped back into Bard’s mind. The first song he had played to the Elves. It wasn’t new to his audience, but they had enjoyed it every other time he played it.

It would have to do.

Bard pulled his eyes away from his eldest, closed them, readied his fingers…

And played.

He imagined he was at the clearing by his barge, playing for the Wood-Elves in their leaf-like armour. He imagined he was playing for the common people of Mirkwood and reminded himself he had played for them just the fortnight before. This is just like the other times, he convinced himself as he plucked. No need to worry.

The mid-section was the most difficult – especially when considering the rest of the song consisting of a slow-ballad like structure – with a series of quick plucks followed by a collection of notes that required him to stretch his fingers uncomfortably. But he played through them without a misstep and reached the end of the song with a sense of accomplishment that kept his shoulders straight.

He opened his eyes, and the Elves were clapping. Legolas had stood, and now grinned more Manishly than he’d ever seen an Elf. His claps urged the Elves around him into more passionate applause.

Bard dared a glance at the Elvenking.

He clapped too. Though with the wrists, and not with the strength and passion of the arms as his son and much of his people did. His grey eyes had faded in their sharpness, though the strong lines of his jaw and alien elegance of his form – which was almost thrice as strong when compared to the other Elves around him, Bard noticed – kept him from appearing… approachable.

Legolas waved his hand, and the Elvish band began another round of music.

“Oh thank Eru,” Bard murmured. Blood rushed from his face and back into his limbs. He could feel his toes again.

The Man stood, and with his lute and most of his wits, he walked back to his children.

Bard played a total of three times.

Thankfully, by each of his usherings onto the stool he remembered another song, as not to bore the Elves. They enjoyed each one, clapping and shouting – what he assumed were – praises in their Elvish tongue.

By the end of his third performance, the moon had slipped from the sky. Though this did not slow down the Feast by any means. In fact, this only made the stars shine brighter, and with them so did the Elves.

Their passionate activities had spurred on Bard and his children. More than once they had joined in the dancing, crossing arms with the civilians of the forest and spinning around the bonfire. Elvish dancing was both organised and slow-paced. Apart from the times it wasn’t, and the participants instead spun and almost sprinted around the bonfire in circles. Sigrid had caught the eye of Legolas, and through many songs they had danced together – heirs to their own royal lineages. Bain had enraptured himself with what appeared to be Elven guards, and between his dancing (which, Bard had noticed, was somewhat stumbled. He did not put it past the boy to have snuck in a cup or two of wine – though, Bard could not find it within himself to scold him) Bain chatted ardently with them, gesturing to their bows. Tilda, with her small stature, struggled to follow the steps crafted for much longer limbs. And so, either Bard, her siblings, or the occasional Elf would collect her in their arms and continue the dance.

Bard himself found himself paired with all sorts of Elves, from the common guard, those dressed a bit more finely, and the few dressed and poised as aristocratically as Legolas. Some, the Man noticed, shared vague facial features. Perhaps the Elf’s brothers? A sister? (Though he noticed Legolas’s father did not rise from his seat to join the dancing, and something within Bard stirred at that). Nonetheless, Bard’s lungs had begun to ache and he’d excused himself after more dances than he’d usually last. Perhaps it had been the Elvish food.

Now, Tilda lay by his feet, curled in her cloak and sleeping. Bain had returned from the Elvish guards and had begun to sway, though every time Bard had asked if he needed to sleep, he had scoffed and straightened. Sigrid leaned against her father, watching the Elves with tired but curious eyes.

Bard himself had begun to feel the beckoning of sleep. But a mixture of protective instincts and a feeling that he would never see these sights again kept his eyes open, committing all the moments he could to memory.

“Think there’s more apple slices on the table, Da?” Sigrid asked him, sleep waning the edges of her voice.

“Want me to check?” he replied.

His daughter could only nod and yawn.

So, after gently guiding her to lay upon the blanket, Bard stood and left for the table, lute clutched in his hand. One could never be sure when the Elves wanted another song, and it would be embarrassing to be unprepared.

As it happened, there were apple slices on the table, precisely cut and set to lay over one another like the feathers of a bird. Here the smell was strongest. Bard could smell wine – quite a lot of it, in its bitter scent – and distinct smells of fruit. A wad of napkins lay nearby, so the Man carefully set his lute against one of the table legs and began piling the apple slices. How many would Sigrid want? Perhaps he should take some for the trip home?

“Bard the bard.”

Bard jumped, jolting with shock and spinning on his heel to see-

“My Lord!” he exclaimed before remembering his manners and bowing low.

The Elvenking stood before him in a similar silver robe to his son. However, his set rolled over his shoulders, like water over a fall, and dipped towards the grass in an ivory glow. His flaxen hair drifted to his waist, as straight as stalks of wheat. His crown had been removed, though that did not hinder the sharpness of his grey eyes or the regal aura that surrounded him. They narrowed on Bard, though less like a hunting hawk, and instead resembled more of a shepherd over his sheep.

“I enjoyed your songs,” he said. His voice was low, like the rumbling of a strong river over rocks. The compliment made Bard’s heart jump. “The songs of my people. Where did you learn them?”

Bard took his lute. “My father taught me, my Lord. He gave me his lute and his learnings.”

The Elvenking, more majestic than the moon, or anything Bard had ever seen, reached out with a pale hand and took the lute from him. The Elf examined it with careful eyes, watching its golden intricates reflect the bonfire’s light. He ran his fingertips over the Elvish inscriptions.

“A descendant of Girion,” he stated.

Bard felt the lie ready on his tongue, but he swallowed it down. “Yes, my Lord.”

The Elvenking nodded, and an almost wistful look glazed his eyes. “I had a matching set of lutes crafted many years ago,” he said. “One given to the Prince of the Woodland Realm, and the other given to the Prince of Dale.”

Bard felt his mind roll, but instead of a well-built wheel, the long night slowed it to a ball of mud down a grassy hill. Through a sleepy haze, he remembered Legolas’s own lute.

“I am glad to see it is still in good hands.” The Elvenking smiled, and although the sight should have been like a cracked surface of ice, it was instead the first streams trickling from the snow-caps of mountains. “I should have you play for my people again, some time. The relations between our two lines should be kept well and alive.”

“I- I should be happy to, my Lord.”

The Elvenking handed back the lute. “My name is Thranduil.”

With that, the Elvenking swirled away from him and walked towards his chair. In his wake, Bard felt something that had previously settled deep within his chest, bound by ropes, spread past the confinements of his ribs and warm the rest of his body.

As precious as the Black Arrow indeed, Bard thought to himself.

Bard did not know what time it was. All his children had fallen asleep and now lay around him. He found his eyes closed more often than open. The Man briefly wondered how he would have been if he had drunk.

And yet, despite the Man’s losing battle against the darkness of sleep, the Elves continued on, as lively as ever.

I could never be an Elf, Bard thought sleepily. All play and no rest.

The pointed boots of an Elf appeared in front of him, and long silvery robes fell beside them.

“I apologise if we have worn you, Bard,” Legolas said from above him.

“Men are not as…” Bard struggled for the word, juggling syllables in his mind. “Virile, as Elves.”

Legolas chuckled. “We shall assist you home then.”

Bard could only nod. The idea of sailing back across the lake without assistance was a troubling one. He accepted the Elf’s offered forearm without much thought, and let the Prince guide him the short distance to his King.

“My Lord,” Legolas said when he stopped the pair in front of Thranduil’s elaborately crafted throne. “My troop will assist Bard and his children home.”

The Elvenking turned his eyes to them, wineglass in hand. He shook his head minutely – Bard would not have caught it if not for how to motion made his hair shine. “Do not worry yourself, Legolas. I will overlook their journey home.”

The younger Elf’s brow creased slightly, but it was gone in a second and he nodded. He turned to Bard.

“It had been good to once again meet a Bard. It has been only too long. I hope our next meeting is not nearly as stretched.”

“And neither do I,” Bard responded.

The Elf grinned once more, squeezed his bicep, and vanished.

So, Bard was left standing, alone, before the Elvenking.

The Elf stood from his throne and Bard noticed Thranduil stood at least a head taller than him – and Bard was tall for the Men of the Lake. As the Elf’s eyes stared him down, he briefly wondered the Elvenking’s age. How many generations of Bard’s family could fit into his lifetime?

“I have not heard the songs of the Bards of Dale since the city fell,” the Elf began. “A century comes as a blink of an eye to an Elf, but one without music drags like pebbles along a riverbed.”

The long stretches of time after his parent’s death came back to Bard and, although dulled by the river of time, still stung.

The Elf smiled, then, and the star’s light appeared to glow around him. The smell of rain returned. “I hope you will accompany us next year. Return to the routines of old.”

Bard didn’t think he had the strength to bow, so he nodded. “Of course, my Lord. I’ve greatly enjoyed your Feast, and so have my children.”

The Elvenking nodded slightly – more of the downwards tilting of the head than anything else – and reached out with pale hands.

Cold fingers cupped Bard’s cheeks. He could feel fingertips press into the back of his head, and something in his mind became… unlatched.

“Next year, Bard.”

The Elf leaned forward and pressed his lips to Bard’s forehead. His white hair closed around them like a curtain, and for a moment all Bard could see was the intense glittering of his silver robes. Something rose from his toes, darting through his muscles and scaling his bones. A sudden pressure engulfed his head, and he blinked.

The sounds of the Feast died away.

And when Bard opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the ceiling beams of his home.

The children laid around him once more, curled under their cloaks and unfamiliar, Elvish-style blankets. Glancing with tired eyes – oh how good it would be to sleep – he spotted his lute on the table. Beside it, an intricately woven basket sat laden with goods. Through heavy blinks, Bard spotted a wine bottle, a heavy, non-reflective fabric, and something eerily like the point of a dagger’s sheath.

There were other points, other odd angles and colours that urged the Man’s mind to investigate, but his eyes were so heavy.

Tomorrow, he thought.

His head fell against the thin pillows of his bed, and from the window, he could see, above the jagged roofs of Lake Town, the stars twinkle in their elegance.

A tune came to him, in sleep. It was not one he had learnt, or one he had ever heard, but it possessed the grace of Elves, and the precise measures of their fingers. It reminded him of the trees of Mirkwood, of the river and the wind. It reminded him of the Elves, with their delicate steps and fleet-footed dancing.

And it reminded him of their King, of his robe of stars and gentle kiss to the Man’s brow.

Slept took Bard. It cradled him close.

And softly, as it was for Bard’s ears alone, it sang the songs of Elves.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading! I've put a lot of effort into this and have enjoyed writing it immensely. If you like this work, I've written other Hobbit-centered pieces (though nowhere near this length), and although I've only just started I plan to write a lot more!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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